words.

words are your thing, right? i mean, you switched majors how many times until words finally became your focus?

you're good at words. good at communicating. good at finding that sore place inside your chest, below the heart and behind the sternum, taking all that existential woe and wrapping it up nicely in turns of phrases that communicate something.
the truth is, you're bad with words.

you go to open your mouth and you can't find the words and you start to squirm and panic and you reach for the closest things you can think of but they're still not accurate enough and fuck you might have possibly picked the worst words possible because you just said something that is the opposite of what you meant to say.
and now you're stuck inside the labyrinth. there's no way out without opening your mouth and unweaving that tangled tapestry you have made.
isolation within a failure to communicate.
an inability to string words together correctly.

screaming out deep inside you is that small aching spot, below the heart and behind the sternum, begging you to please for the love of life say something and fix this and make yourself be understood properly so that you're not creating a subtext in the response that isn't actually there.

two massive huge crises coexist.

panic.
unimaginable panic.
and your brain is good at creating panic. at creating hurt. at picking at scabs. at zooming at the speed of light so that things end up inevitably worse than they would have been if you could just fucking learn to use your words right.



fuck. me.
what did i do?
why can't i say the words that i feel are there?
i'm panicking. it's late.
i can tell.


















fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.